We All Fall Down
by CornishGirl
Summary: The fourth time Dean falls down, Sam knows enough to be worried. They're in the middle of a mid-winter forest, chilled and breathless, hunting some kind of monster that's hunting hikers, and something has gone wrong, very wrong, with Dean.


**We All Fall Down**

* * *

The first time Dean falls down, Sam snickers, says something out of childhood that Dean had said to him on more than one occasion—he really had been pretty damn uncoordinated back then—with an amused, lilting observation. "Way to go, _Grace_. Walk much?"

The second time Dean falls down, Sam actually gusts a laugh, pauses, waits as Dean, on hands and knees, flings aside with no little vehemence the usual detritus of a forest floor—pine needles, sticks, dead limbs, rocks—while emitting a couple of muttered curses and shoves himself back to his feet. He notes Sam's grin as he brushes off his clothing, and scowls. Then he stomps right by him to take the lead.

The third time Dean falls down, Sam's laughter rings through the winter-chilled, shadowed forest and silences the birds. He is not far behind his brother, so within two strides he catches up, stands beside Dean's prone form, and says uncomplimentary things. The words are nothing Dean hasn't said to him. It's just that usually it's said only once, because when has either of them ever fallen down _this_ much?

Dean growls, blurts a "Crap!" into the deadfall just beneath his face, slips on pine needles as he climbs awkwardly to his feet. He spits, rubs the back of one hand against his forehead, smearing a streak of dark soil across it, then runs a palm through his short-cropped hair and down to the back of his neck, where he massages with broad fingertips. "This forest is out to get me."

Dean's much fairer than Sam, and embarrassment is always obvious even when he shields his face from such emotions. Because he blushes when he's embarrassed, and when he laughs, and when he's feeling self-conscious. The laughter-sparked color comes often, unless they are mired in an activity that precludes any kind of humor, but only rarely because of embarrassment or self-consciousness, because Dean in general doesn't _get_ embarrassed or self-conscious.

Sam has memories of Dean in high school before he dropped out, when he was called out for tardiness, or absences, or because his clothing suggested the new boy, older of two brothers, was not from a comfortable, well-bred family. None of that mattered to Dean, who shrugged it away until he didn't even do that, just stared back with that level, slightly hooded gaze, and in short order no one called him out about anything anymore.

Now, Dean's face is pink, as are his ears, and even the back of the neck where he's rubbing. Because what he _does_ get embarrassed about is looking foolish in front of his baby brother. They bitch out one another with great regularity—always have, always will—but in the middle of a case it's like neither of them to repeat whatever it is that provokes amusement, even laughter, at the other's expense, because repetition doesn't happen unless it's intentional. Lessons from their father made that highly unlikely.

"What is _with_ you?" Sam asks.

"I hate camping."

"We're not camping," Sam reminds him. "We're _walking_ —and you're not doing a very good job of it. You didn't have have whiskey with your Wheaties this morning, did you?"

Dean rounds on him and they stand face to face maybe two feet apart. Dean's color is high, and he is _not_ amused. "You know what I think?" The tone is not what anyone would interpret as embarrassed or self-deprecating. " _I_ think—"

And then Dean falls down a fourth time. Just drops to his knees, pitches straight forward, and lands full-force against Sam's knees with all of his weight.

Sam goes down, too, because when nearly two hundred pounds of hard-muscled brother lands without warning against your knees, the momentum of it, the unexpectedness, and the overall awkwardness of the position not only knocks you off your own stance but threatens to hyperextend your knees. The only option is to fall backward, and Sam does. Hard.

He lands butt-first, and the torso follows. Shoulders slam into the ground, arms splay out, and elbows whack the deadfall. The only thing that doesn't strike the earth is his head, because he's trained himself to keep it up whenever possible in the midst of being knocked down. Except that usually it's all manner of things supernatural doing the knocking down, not his brother.

Dean is now sprawled heavily on his belly with his upper body draped over Sam's feet and shins. The weight and slackness is so profound that Sam realizes his brother is unconscious. Not dazed, not in the midst of rousing, but utterly _out_.

Sam hitches himself up on his elbows. His booted feet are buried beneath his brother. "Dean? Hey— _Dean_?"

Nothing.

Sam plants his hands and shoves himself backward, dragging legs out from under his brother, then scrambles forward on his knees so he can reach out, grab shoulders, and roll Dean over onto his back. His legs twist upon one another, and his slack ankles cross. There is no movement other than that which Sam makes for him, shifting arms, dragging at jacket, flannel, and t-shirt to check torso, uncrossing his ankles to push pants as far up his legs as he can get them, looking for outward signs of— _something_.

Without stripping him down completely for a full body triage, Sam can't assess more than a portion of Dean's body. His face is dusted with a layer of fine, dark dirt, and a couple of leaves, a pine needle, adhere to his face, but Sam brushes them away and pries open Dean's lids. He sees the whites of Dean's eyes because they are rolled partway up into his head, but what portion of the pupils are visible appear normal.

"Hey," Sam says, as worry lights a fire in his gut. "C'mon, c'mon—Dean. _Dean_."

There is the faintest trace of something wet at the corner of Dean's mouth. Sam runs a thumb over it, lifts it to his nose, smells the residue. They had learned in childhood to check even what appears to be inconsequential, because often times it isn't.

Saliva. His brother is _drooling_.

"It's okay," Sam blurts; and knows it isn't, not really. But he says it anyway, and again, because what else is there _to_ say, _to_ do, but to attempt reassurance. It is, he knows, as much for himself as for his unconscious brother, who probably feels nothing, and certainly doesn't realize that a faint thread of drool is seeping from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his jaw. Because _that_ would make him blush. _That_ would embarrass him.

It was Sam who, as a kid, drooled into his pillow now and then. Dean had teased him mercilessly. Right now Sam wants to tease his brother, because that would mean Dean is awake to hear it. He will turn bright pink throughout his face, the tips of his ears, and the back of his neck, and Sam wants to see that.

Right now he is markedly pale.

"But we haven't _done_ anything yet," Sam says numbly. "We haven't even reached the cave." And he realizes he sounds baffled, and helpless, and desperately childish, arguing with the air and an unconscious brother that he shouldn't _be_ unconscious; that nothing they have done accounts for this situation. They were on their way to a cave to investigate reports of odd sounds, a rancorous stench, and missing hikers. Dean opined, upon Sam reading the newspaper articles to him, that it was likely a bear, until Sam reminded him it is mid-winter and bears, during hibernation, do not generally come out to eat hikers.

"It's basically a version of a coma," Sam had pointed out. "When you were in a coma after the car crash, you didn't get out of the hospital bed to go searching for cheeseburgers."

Dean had, as expected, shot him a glare, because while he'd been unconscious throughout most of his stay in the hospital, he did remember with excess clarity the moment he came to with a ventilator tube down his throat. He'd described the experience to Sam later while trying to extract a promise that his brother would never allow him to be intubated again, saying with some heat that he'd been pretty sure he was going to choke to death while waking _up_ from the damn coma, and what good was that kind of medical care, anyway?

"The kind that keeps you alive," Sam had said, and knew he'd won that round. Fortunately Dean had never again required the insertion of a vent tube. So far.

But now?

His pulse beats steadily and his respiration seems normal.

"C'mon, dammit." Sam rolls bunched knuckles against his brother's breastbone. "Wake up, or I'll haul your ass into a hospital and _ask_ them to shove a tube down your throat. Just because."

Just because he wants, so very badly, for his brother to be awake, and not as he'd been in that hospital bed chained to machines and tubes and wires and IVs, or with paddles feeding raw electricity into his chest to jump-start a failing heart.

Dean's limbs twitch, his mouth moves, and his eyebrows briefly knit before smoothing out again. His attempt to verbalize is a gust of breath, and a weak, stuttered moan.

"All the way," Sam orders, and rolls the knuckles again. Hard.

Dean's eyes pop open and a hand flails weakly toward Sam's. "Jes'Chr'st," he slurs. "—hell you doin'?"

"Waking you up," Sam replies, and assesses his brother closely.

Dean is blinking, scrunching up his eyelids, then stretching them wide. His mouth is working, pursing slightly, then relaxing. He emits a breathy sound. He closes one eye, then the other, and frowns in perplexion. He shuts his left eye, stares up the canopy of trees overhead. Flops his hands into deadfall.

"F'zzy," he says, blinking two eyes again.

"Your vision?" Sam asks. "Can you see out of both eyes?"

"Yuh. One's jus'—fuzzy." He flaps a hand toward his face, drags it unsteadily against his jaw, grimaces, then gazes blankly at his palm. "Dude—was I _drooling_?"

The startled outrage is amusing regardless of Dean's condition, and Sam grins briefly. "Yep."

"Damn," Dean says, then works his jaw as if he's trying to unlimber it. "—hell happ'ned?"

"You fell down," Sam explains. "Four times, in fact. Now, are you hurting anywhere? Headache?"

Dean takes a internal self-inventory Sam has witnessed before. "Nuh. Well—my nose. A li'l." He feels it with careful fingers. "Bu' not brok'n."

"It collided with me," Sam explains helpfully. "You went out, dude. From standing right in front of me to doing a total face-plant into my knees in two seconds. You just _dropped_. Now, let's get you up, okay? We're heading back. If you're going to start tripping over invisible impediments and fainting like a girl, now is not the best time to take on some cave-dwelling monster."

"Invis'ble 'ped'ments," Dean attempts to mimic in tones of disgust, as he often does when Sam trots out a piece of his extensive vocabulary. Sam never does it for effect unless he is intentionally winding up his brother, but he can't help that he's well-read and vocabulary comes naturally. "'n'I don't faint like a girl. Men _pass out_."

"You passed out," Sam amends. "I don't know, maybe it's blood sugar, or something, the way you eat . . . c'mon, let's get you on your feet." Sam rises, reaches down, so Dean can grab his forearm even as he closes a hand on Dean's. His brother blinks up at him vacantly, then obligingly wraps his fingers around Sam's arm and braces for the upward pull.

With his brother halfway up, Sam realizes Dean's barely clinging to his arm and is about to end up flat on his ass. Sam tightens his grip and does all the heavy lifting—literally—then steadies his brother when Dean's on his feet. Because Dean is clearly wobbling.

"Whoa—" Dean mutters. "Head rush—" His right leg buckles and he plants his left leg hastily to the side, taking the weight to prop himself precariously.

" _Hey_." Sam grips him more tightly, now wrapping his other hand around Dean's left arm and literally holding him in place. "You okay? You staying upright? Not gonna _faint_ on me again, are you?"

"Leg's 'sleep." Dean is blinking again, squeezing one eye closed, then squinting as he opens it. "Still f'zzy."

Sam feels alarm thump into his gut. "Dean—can you walk at all?"

" _Leg's_ asleep." Dean frowns a little, fists and unfists his right hand, then scowls at it, shakes it out.

Sam feels cold, and it has nothing to do with the mid-winter temperature. "Take a few steps."

"What?"

"Take a few steps. I want you to walk."

Dean walks. It's three steps, then two additional when Sam gestures for more. "Ground's a li'l trippy," Dean says. "There. Happy?"

"No," Sam says, not hiding his concern. "I'm not happy at all." Because the steps were vastly uncoordinated on his right side; and now, with his brother standing unsteadily in a broad band of sunlight slicing through the forest canopy, Sam sees the almost imperceptible sag of his mouth at one side, the glisten of saliva on his lips. He reaches up, taps Dean hard on his right cheekbone with a crooked finger, using the nail. "Can you feel this?"

"Li'l numb," Dean says.

Sam taps the left cheekbone. "Is this numb?"

"'s fine. Normal."

"Grip my hand." Sam thrusts it out. " _Grip_ it. Hard."

"Sam, what—"

"Just do it, Dean! Grab on and grip."

Dean is clearly nonplussed, but he follows orders. In his eyes, Sam can see the beginnings of comprehension, that something isn't right. Not when his little brother is so worried, and asking questions and giving orders.

He grips, and Sam feels his chest tighten. "That the best you can do?"

"I'm gripping!" Dean shoots back. "What more d'you want?"

" _More_ more," Sam says. He isn't panicking, because that won't help matters, but he knows deep in his gut what's wrong. Dean's grip is markedly weak, just like his right leg. "Come on, we have to go. I gotta get you to the car, to a hospital."

" _What?_ Sammy—"

Sam cuts him off. "I think it's a TIA." He hopes it is, because otherwise the situation is grave. He moves to Dean's side and hooks an arm around his waist. "One of my professors had one in the middle of class."

"TI—what?"

"Transient Ischemic Attack," Sam expands with explicit clarity. "It's a stroke, Dean. I think you've had a stroke."

Dean is shocked into immobility. "Dude, I'm twunny-eight. People m' age don't _have_ strokes!"

"And you had a heart attack at twenty-six," Sam reminds him, winding fingers into his belt. "C'mon, we need to go. Just lean on me."

"That was a _taser_ ," Dean points out, but allows himself to be moved forward. "Didn' jus' happen, y'know. Sammy—a _stroke_?"

"I think so." He steadies his brother, wishing they could move faster, but short of carrying or dragging him, it isn't going to happen. And Dean, conscious and unwounded, will allow neither. "You've got the symptoms. Weakness on one side—your grip's for shit and your leg's pretty wobbly—you're slurring your words, your vision's blurry in one eye, and you've got a sag to the right side of your mouth. That's why you're drooling. You can't feel it because your face is partly numb."

"Crap," Dean says in disgust, wiping again at his chin. Now embarrassment is obvious in the color of his face. " _Drooling_."

"If we get you there ASAP, there's treatment. TIAs are usually mild; symptoms don't last. Don't have to worry about it messing up your pretty girlish face."

Dean ignores the jibe as he concentrates on moving. "How d'you _know_ this crap, Sammy? —thought you were pre- _law_ , not pre-med."

Sam keeps them going. Dean's left side is as strong as ever, but his balance is off because his right side is so weak. He is attempting to compensate by swinging his left arm widely. "I told you—one of my profs had a TIA in the middle of class a couple of years ago. I researched, read all about it."

"Nerd."

"He was out on med leave for a while, but came back and was fine."

"—'fine ' _while_.'"

"'Fine'?—oh, _de_ fine. I think it was a couple of weeks. Maybe a little longer. Dean—"

"Weeks! Weeks? We don' _do_ weeks, Sammy. People die."

"And I'll call Bobby, tell him we need some downtime, someone to cover us here. We gotta do this, Dean. You can't hunt monsters on a broken leg, after all."

"You sayin' my brain's broke?"

"Your brain has always been broken."

"Hah." Dean is laboring and his speech isn't clear, but his verbal responses are classic big brother. Confusion is a symptom, too, but doesn't appear to be affecting Dean. "They gon' go inside my head?"

"They'll start with a med called tPa, then decide. Depends on tests. It's a blood clot, Dean . . . a clot broke loose from somewhere, traveled to your brain, cut off the blood supply briefly. They'll probably put you on anticoagulants, something for high blood pressure. Now and then, yeah, they do surgery to clear out the blood vessel." What he doesn't say is that anticoagulants for a hunter is not a good thing, as he'll bleed more heavily if wounded. "It's a simple procedure."

Dean's breath is running hard. "Maybe you _shoulda_ been pre-med."

"Probably help with what we do now, yeah."

Dean's vastly unsteady on the forest floor, with one leg wonky, and Sam finally takes his right arm and pulls it over his own shoulder, hangs onto it. It's been maybe a half-hour since he got his brother moving, longer than that since Dean started falling, undoubtedly early signs of the stroke. Sam knows time matters a great deal: the medication must be given as soon as possible to be most effective, and recommended no later than three hours. They are a little over an hour out of the nearest town, and at Dean's pace—he just can't manage faster—Sam isn't sure how much longer it will take to reach the car. Probably another half-hour.

"Bat out of hell," he mutters; and trust Dean to pick up on that.

"Meatloaf? You're talking _Meatloaf_ when my brain's broken?"

"I'm talking about how I'm going to _drive_ ," Sam retorts; and trust Dean to pick up on _that_.

"You are _not_ drivin' my baby like a bat outta hell."

"I will if I want to. As you always say, Driver picks the speed, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

"Music," Dean corrects. "Dude, I said that _once_."

"It was succinct, and memorable. And so very you."

"You sayin' I suck?"

"No, I said you were _succinct_. Suck-sinct. Something is stated briefly and clearly expressed." Sam hitches Dean a little higher as they continue, supporting ungainly weight. "You are all kinds of succinct, trust me. Except, you know, when you blab."

"I don't blab. When do I blab?"

"Usually when you don't want to talk about something. Then you blab."

Dean is silent a moment, and his breathing is audible and uneven as he works to maintain his balance without pulling his brother down. "How is it blabbing when I don't want to talk?"

"You wrap it all up in words. In _other_ words. In words meant to divert from the actual subject of the conversation. You'll do a whole dissertation on how Led Zeppelin came to write 'Stairway to Heaven' just to avoid talking about how you feel. Which reminds me—how do you feel? Any steadier?"

Dean says, "Jimmy Page and Robert Plant."

"What?"

"Jimmy Page and Robert Plant wrote 'Stairway.' It wasn't the whole band."

Sam huffs an exasperated laugh. "And you just proved my point!"

"'m okay, Sammy."

Sam can't really look at his brother for detail because they are too close. Joined at the hip, mostly, and nearly literally. "You sure? Your vision any better?"

"We're staggerin' through a forest, Sam. Everything's kinda—bouncy."

"Well, stagger on, Stagger Lee."

Dean emits a bark of laughter. "Grateful Dead reference, Sammy? 'm rubbin' off on you!"

"Yeah, well—dissertations, remember? And blabbing? Man, you and Dad used to go on for hours about some song or another, the life story of this guy or that one. I mean, you two had whole _debates_ when I was trying to sleep in the back of the car. So yeah, I ought to remember some of that crap."

"It's not crap if s'music."

"I'd rather listen to the _music_ than listen to you blab about it."

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"—we stop a minute?"

"Why?" But Sam eases them to a halt without waiting for an answer. "You okay?"

"Let go of my arm. Sam—let go."

Alarm shoots through Sam. "What's wrong with your arm? Is it more numb than before?" TIAs in themselves may not be serious, but can be precursors to full-blown strokes. "Dean—"

"You got your damn shoulder jammed up into my armpit and you're three inches taller than me; _that's_ what's wrong!"

The aggrievedness in Dean's tone does not suggest he's worse, only that he's uncomfortable and grumpy. Sam unhooks his brother's arm, then loosens his own from where it's locked around Dean's waist. He braces him with a hand on his chest and takes a good hard look at his brother's face.

"I'm okay," Dean repeats testily, as he massages his armpit.

"I want a triage," Sam says. "None of this 'I'm fine' crap. I gotta be able to tell the doctors all the details. _Details_ , Dean! No macho bullshit."

"It's better," Dean says. "Everything. Eyesight, weakness—it's all better."

His speech is clearer, Sam notes, and his mouth has firmed. No drool. Sam thrusts out his arm. "Grip."

Dean sighs, wraps his hand around Sam's wrist, and grips. "See?"

"That as hard as you can?"

Dean bears down. "Yes."

"Okay," Sam nods, and Dean removes his hand. "Okay, that _is_ a little better. Long way from normal, but improving. Try a few steps, see how you do."

Dean scowls, then takes several steps. He's not striding with his usual forceful shoulder-rolling gait, still off-balance, stilted, and weak on his right side, but then he is also walking across uneven ground, which slows anyone.

"Steadier," Sam notes, though he's clearly not recovered. "But I'm still going to hang onto you, give you a hand."

"Sam—"

"Or I'll pick you up and sling you over my shoulder in a fireman's carry, and you damn well better believe I can do it because improved is _not_ the same as fully recovered. You fell down four times, Dean. I'm not letting you fall again. You might knock more brains loose. Now, come on." And Sam steps in against Dean's side again, grabs hold of the back of his belt, threatens a wedgie. "Let's go. I've got a date with your car, and you with a doctor."

* * *

By the time they reach the car, Dean is feeling well enough to demand the keys. Sam says no. Dean argues. Sam says no.

"Sam, I'm _fine_."

"I don't care. You can be 'fine' sitting on the passenger side of the car. Now get _in_ it, and let's go."

"Sam—"

"I will either physically _put_ you in it, or I can call an ambulance and you can ride in that. And you know how you hate ambulances."

"You wouldn't."

"I would. I _will_." Sam yanks open the door, gestures sharply. After a moment Dean climbs into the car, swings shut the door with its usual metallic grind as he mutters beneath his breath.

When Sam slides behind the wheel, he gives his brother a critical once-over. Dean does appear to be _Dean_ again, clearly improving. Nonetheless, he wants to get them to the hospital as quickly as possible. Key is shoved into the ignition, engine turned over, gear shift thrown into Drive, and they're on their way, kicking stones and dirt from the road shoulder as Sam wheels the big car into a tire-squealing U-turn.

Dean winces as a rock cracks against the undercarriage. "Sam!"

Sam turns on the radio as a _radio_ , not the cassette deck, spins the knob, settles on a station and cranks it up to block brotherly protestations.

It doesn't stop Dean, who merely raises his voice. "Oh. My. _God_ ," he moans loudly. "Not _light rock_. God save me from ballads, already! You are such an emo little—no, scratch that—such a _sasquatch_ -sized bitch!"

Sam slants him a glance. "Music, shotgun."

"Ahhhhh!" Dean's waving a hand. "Enough with that, already!"

"You've said it more than once, you know," Sam tells him. "Pretty much every time I beg to listen to something other than hard rock. Any more all you have to say is 'Driver,' and I know what comes next."

"Well, at least I'm _succinct_ about it."

Sam grins, feels the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders begin to ease a bit, and turns down the volume. Dean slants him a questioning glance, thinks about it, then slowly sneaks a hand toward the dial.

Sam slaps it away. "It's the Beatles."

"It's 'Yesterday.'"

"It's the Beatles."

"It's a _ballad_."

"Dean, sometimes you _sing_ to ballads! Don't deny it, because I sit here next to you in the car every day and I _hear_ you, okay?"

Dean mutters something about brain damage being the cause of it, which makes Sam tense up again. Because he's pretty damn certain now that what his brother experienced _was_ a TIA, which shouldn't be taken lightly. But he figures he's told Dean enough about symptoms, treatments, and outcomes, so he says nothing more.

* * *

At the hospital, Sam is grateful the doctor listens closely to what he describes rather than relying strictly on his own visual exam. He is gray-haired, brown-eyed, very tan, probably in his 60s. He then questions Dean, pays attention again when Sam hastily translates Dean-speak from "Look, hey, I feel fine, okay? Can we go?" into more detailed pieces of information. In short order Dean receives tPa via the IV stuck into his arm, is wheeled away for tests, wheeled back again after a couple of hours, hooked up to machines and tubes and wires he calls 'crap,' and then fixes his brother with a baleful glare.

"Tough," Sam says. "We wait for results."

Results, when they come, are highly promising. Yes, it was a TIA; Sam is commended for recognizing the symptoms and acting quickly, as too often people are dismissive of the signs and delay treatment, which makes recovery more problematical.

Dean scowls while Sam attempts to convert a triumphant smile into a diffident nod of acknowledgment.

"So," the doctor says, "I see no indications that we need to do any kind of procedure. We'll just put you on a couple of meds, and suggest some lifestyle changes. You don't smoke, which is good, and I can see you get plenty of exercise, but you ought to take a look at your diet—avoid excess cholesterol, for instance—and also at your stress levels and alcohol intake."

Sam squints a little at that. Most hunters drink, and often too much, _because_ of the stress, and Dean's diet is pretty much 50% alcohol and 50% cholesterol. But he says nothing, because the doctor is continuing.

"While it's a warning, a TIA doesn't necessarily suggest you'll ever experience a major stroke, or even a minor one. You'll need to take it easy for a few weeks because of fatigue, maybe a few residual aftereffects, but I'm confident you'll be just fine. TIAs are not that uncommon."

Dean emits a long growl in the back of his throat, which Sam interprets as impatience and annoyance and the desire to get the hell out of the hospital.

The doctor, in muted but clearly tie-dyed scrubs, eyes Dean thoughtfully, weighing something. He's probably dealt with rude patients before. "You like rock music?"

Dean's brows rise. He makes it a question. "Yeah."

"You know Bret Michaels?"

"Lead singer of Poison," Dean responds promptly, but is still clearly wary of where the topic is heading.

"Well, _he_ experienced a TIA and he's perfectly fine. Back playing music."

"If you call that music," Dean mutters.

"Not a Poison fan?"

"Not a _ballad_ fan," Dean clarifies. "Their best known song is 'Every Rose Has Its Thorn.'"

"Who, then?" the doctor asks.

Dean shows his teeth in a brief, insincere smile. "I like that old time rock & roll. That kind of music just soothes my soul."

"Ah." The doctor nods. "Seger fan."

"Bob's the man."

"He sang ballads, too, you know. 'Turn the Page,' for one."

By now Sam's trying not to laugh. Dean's face is turning pink, his brows are knotting, and his mouth is going flat.

"Okay, I'm out of here," the doctor says. "Time for evening rounds. The nurse will be by shortly with some meds and a couple of scrips. Just remember: You get by with a little help from your friends."

Dean is shaking his head as the doctor departs, and Sam just grins at him.

Dean notices, stills, glares up at him. "What?"

"Kind of a cool dude, for a doc."

"He _likes_ _ballads_ , Sam!"

"So?" Sam says. "You may not like them, but you sure as hell _know_ them. You sing them in the car."

"I do not!"

"Dude, _last week_ you were singing it."

"Singing what?"

"That song."

"What song?"

"'Every Rose Has Its Thorn.'"

"I was _not_."

"Okay, fine. For the next two weeks, every time you sing along with a ballad, I'm going to record you with my phone. Then I'll make you a mix tape of it, call it 'The Mellow Stylings of Dean Winchester.' Sound good?"

"Sammy—"

"Turn the page, Dean."

"Jesus," Dean mutters. "You're gonna kill me with this crap."

"Maybe. Because, you know, thorn."

"Sam!"

"I mean, think about it. Today you're in a hospital. Yesterday, all your troubles were so far away."

"Stop it," Dean moans. "You're making my blood pressure rise. You know that's not a good thing, right?"

Sam summons his inner Bowie and sings two words: "Under pressure."

Dean yanks the thin hospital pillow out from under his head and jams it over his face with a splayed hand, makes a muffled announcement. "I can't hear you."

"Yes, you can. Hey, a question, okay? Seriously."

Dean lifts the pillow partway. "What question?"

"Are we going to Scarborough Fair?"

Dean flings the pillow at his brother. Who catches it, laughing, and says he's going out to the vending machine for something to drink. "You want anything?"

"Weed, whites, and wine," Dean replies.

Sam is shocked. Dean doesn't _do_ any of the above. "What?"

"Hah," Dean says. "Gotcha. That's from a Linda Ronstadt song."

Sam smiles, nods, then suddenly flashes on a different Ronstadt song. The one the Eagles did first.

"Desperado," he says, and hands Dean back his pillow.

Dean is mystified as he tucks it beneath his head. "What?"

"That's you, you know. A desperado. And on a steel horse you ride."

Dean stares at him.

Sam shrugs. "But that's okay. Because about five hours from now you can say 'Here comes the sun.'" He smiles. "I'll bring you back some coffee."

His brother is muttering as Sam leaves. But as he rounds the door and slips into the hall, he is pretty damn sure that by the time he returns Dean is certain to be singing something, possibly even a ballad, since he's one of those people who can't get a song out of his head once he's heard it, or thought about it.

Or maybe, since he's in a much-hated hospital, he'll be humming Metallica.

* * *

 **~ end ~**

* * *

 _Yes, Bret Michaels really did experience a TIA. This is what made me look it up, back when it happened. TIAs are often referred to as "mini-strokes," and while they can signal the possibility of a major stroke later, they usually resolve within 24 hours and, if treated promptly, have no lasting repercussions. The musical references kind of fed one into the other in the midst of various conversations, and I had a blast weaving them into the story. (Oh, and the thing about Dean blushing? If you've ever seen Jensen in con clips, this is exactly what happens to him when he laughs or gets self-conscious. It's rather cute.)  
_

 _Hope I made you worry a little, and laugh a little. As always, reviews are much appreciated!_


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